Timber Ashwood had come to take back his family's grove, but he did not know how far the rot had eaten it. He stood at the edge of the dead wood at dawn. The trees ahead were gray and split. No birds sang. His grandfather had planted this land, and a sorcerer had killed it. Timber gripped his axe and searched the tree line for a way in. He could not fight a sickness he could not measure. He needed someone who had walked these dying roots and lived. He found that man near a moss-covered cottage down the trail. The old hunter crouched over a fresh carcass, some twisted deer-thing with too many joints, and skinned it with a short blade. A necklace of yellow fangs hung against his chest. His gray beard was stained dark at the tips. "You're standing in my light," the old elf said, not looking up. This was Theron Ashenblade. Timber had heard the name from frightened villagers. Theron hunted the beasts that crawled out of the dead wood, and no one else dared. If anyone knew where the corruption began, it was this man. "I need to know the dead wood," Timber said. "How far it spreads. Where it started." Theron wiped his blade on his knee and stood. He was half Timber's height and twice as hard to read. He looked Timber over, from the axe to the blue eyes, and grunted. "Ashwood," he said. "You've got the look of that family. Same jaw. They're all dead or gone." "I'm not," Timber said. Theron studied him a long moment. Then he kicked dirt over the carcass and walked to the tree line. Timber followed. The hunter pointed his knife at the gray trunks. "The rot moves," Theron said. "Every week the border creeps out another few steps. I mark it. I have to, or I'd walk into it in the dark." He pushed aside a dead branch. Beneath it, cut into an old stump, was a fresh notch. Beside it, older notches marched back toward the healthy trees. A whole line of them. Timber knelt and traced the marks with his thumb. The oldest notch was deep and weathered. The newest was raw. "It started there," Theron said. He pointed past the notches, deep into the gray, to a low rise. "Center of the old grove. That's where the sickness is strongest. Where he keeps it burning. Everything since has spread from that one point." Timber stood. Now he knew. The corruption began at the heart of his family's grove and pushed outward, growing every week. He could not wait and study it. Every day he delayed, the dead wood swallowed more. "Then that's where I go," Timber said. Theron laughed, low and rough. "Boy, three hunters walked toward that rise this season. None came back. Whatever the sorcerer set to guard it, I've heard it in the dark." He turned away. "You'll need more than an axe."

Timber went back the next morning to walk the path Theron had marked toward the rise. He never reached it. A fresh notch stood two trees past the old one. The blight had crept out another few steps in the night, and the gray had swallowed his trail. Dead trunks blocked the gap he meant to slip through. He gripped his axe and stared. The way in was gone. He had to find another before the rot took more. Peach waited where he had left her, the cord still tied between their wrists. She had asked to walk with him after he learned her secret, the blackouts that stole whole days. He would not let her wander into the dead wood alone. She saw his face and read it fast. "Blocked," she said. Not a question. "The trail's dead," Timber said. "I need another way to the heart." She pulled a folded scrap from her top. Her grandmother's old map, worn soft. "Water," she said, and tapped a mark. "Stream runs down from the rise. Follow it up." Timber knew streams cut through anything. If one ran off the high ground, it would carve a gap the blight could not seal. He nodded and cut the cord to a longer lead so she could keep his pace. They left the gray trees and followed the sound of falling water. The stream widened into a lagoon below a tall falls. The water shimmered, pale and clean, throwing light onto the wet stones. Moss grew thick and green here, untouched by rot. Beyond the pool stood trees heavy with fruit in pink, purple, and colors he had no name for. This ground was alive. Timber knelt and pressed his palm to the moss. Warm. The blight had not reached it. "The stream comes from up there," he said, pointing past the falls to the higher rocks. "It runs straight off the rise. That's my way in." He had found it. A living path the sorcerer could not choke. Peach dipped her numb hand into the pool. She held it there a long moment. "Feels it," she said quietly. She flexed her fingers, and her eyes went wide. The healing water had touched the curse in her hands. Timber watched her face change. For the first time she looked at him without the guard up. "You found this," she said. "For both of us." "We camp here tonight," Timber said. "Rest. Then we climb the stream at first light." They built a fire on the stone bank. Peach sat close, her shoulder against his arm, and did not move away. But when Timber checked the water's edge, he saw a footprint pressed in the mud. Small. Bare. Heading up the stream toward the rise. It was Peach's boot size, but Peach wore boots, and both her boots were on. She had lost days before without knowing where she went. Something had walked this path already.